Against All Odds
by nayahasmyheart
Summary: Brittany Pierce, a tribute from District 1, and Santana Lopez, a tribute from District 11, are thrown into an arena with twenty-two other tributes for the 68th Hunger Games. Only one can survive. And may the odds be ever in their favor.  Currently on hiatus.
1. District 1, Reaping

**A/N: So I came to a conclusion that there should be a Brittana/Hunger Games fic, and since I couldn't find one, I decided to write it myself. The chapters are going to alternate from first person Brittany to first person Santana because I wanted to tell both of their stories, but also stick to Suzanne Collins's style of writing. That's also why I wrote it in present tense. Enjoy the chapter!**

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><p><span>Chapter 1: District 1, Reaping<span>

_Brittany_

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><p>I'm lying in my bed with my eyes tightly shut. The warm sun reddens my eyelids and I know that the time has come for me to get out of bed. But I don't want to. I don't want to face today.<p>

Today is the day that I've been dreading my entire life. The day that I've been vigorously trained for from my first step as a toddler to today, fifteen years later as a seventeen-year-old. I was to grow up to be like my parents—a glorious victor of District 1. I am to bring honor to our district, to continue the long line of triumphs over the other districts. But doing so would mean to kill innocent human beings. Innocent teenagers who haven't yet had the chance to begin their lives. Although, from what I hear about the other districts, I'm not sure that they would even want to.

District 1 is one of the wealthier districts, though not nearly as wealthy as the Capitol, of course. We produce all of the luxury items for the Capitol. Diamonds, other precious gems, jewelry. And since we're the district that brings the Capitol the things that they love most, we receive the best treatment out of all of the districts.

In that sense, we're by far the most fortunate. Rumors tell that the other districts live in terrible poverty and have to provide things like lumber and coal for the Capitol, which must be much harder work than making jewelry. We do have our miners in this district, of course, who retrieve the precious gems, but they are the lowest in the social pyramid and nowhere near the victors. My father and mother make a habit of spitting on the miners when they pass them by. They even gave them a cruel "nickname" which has caught on and has been used by other upper class citizens—Garbageers. Because they're nothing but worthless garbage to them.

In that sense, we, the victors and their children, are the luckiest of all. But in another sense, we're also the most miserable. There are some of us who don't mind it so much. They try to wire us to despise, to yearn to destroy the other tributes, and it works for some. But it didn't for me. I always end up thinking about the lives of the other tributes, or the lives that they had before those were mercilessly snatched away from them. I think about their families and their facial expressions when they see me pull my knife out of their daughter's chest. I think about how they will forever remember my face and seek revenge. How they will never forgive me, how I will never forgive myself, for something that was entirely out of my control.

And then there's the possibility that I won't win. The likelihood that today will be the last day that I spend in District 1. There was the very probable possibility that I would die in that arena.

I've wished many times that I were born into a different family. I would have preferred to grow up poor with a family that loved me rather than grow up wealthy with a family that literally only wants me alive if I bring glory to the district. A family that would make their only daughter volunteer to die.

The door of my room creaks open and my mother's boots click into the room. "Brittany! Wake up! Today's the _big day_!"

I reluctantly open my eyes to find her powdered face looming over me. She has the typical face of a victor—skin pulled tightly and lips overly plump due to collagen. Everything about her screams, "Rich! Wealthy! Money! Fortune! Look at me, I'm the victor from District 1! Behold and bow down to Shimmer Pierce!"

I cough a little at the sharp and powerful smell of her perfume as she straightens her back to give me space to stand up. As I do, my face entirely unenthusiastic, she brings my chin up with a long nail so that I'll look her straight in the eyes. "Now where's that smile we've been working on? You need to look absolutely _perfect_ for the reaping!"

The tips of my lips pull into a halfhearted and somewhat sarcastic smile. I have this terribly sour feeling in my stomach. I keep asking myself the same question over and over again—when the time comes, will I kill or let myself be killed? Neither option seems very appealing.

The one thing that comforts me is the knowledge of how powerful I am. I may be a girl, but I'm stronger and faster than any boy who's been trained for the Hunger Games. I can sprint for miles with a hundred pound weight on my back. Maybe I can run and hide in the arena until they all kill each other.

My mother shoves me out of the room and into the shower. "Make sure you scrub in _all_ the little places! You want to leave an _impression_!"

I turn to look at her and she slams the door in my face. Ugh. So typical of her.

I strip out of my pajamas and step into the shower. Whenever I turn on the water in the shower, I take a moment to thank whoever is up there for letting me have warm water. So many people don't. And those who do take it for granted. But I appreciate every little thing in my life. Maybe because I've always known that my life will most likely be over before I turn eighteen.

My thoughts turn to my mother again. There's just no way that she's always been this bubbly and feminine. I mean, she won the Hunger Games. She had to be tough at some point in her life. She's ruthless, yes. That I've always seen. I don't have a hard time imagining her carelessly chopping off heads. But how is it that she didn't get killed first?

After scrubbing in _all the little places_, I step out of the shower and begin to dry myself off with a soft towel. I unfold the dress that my mother had picked for me and lift it before me. I cringe and gasp at the same time, which probably makes me look like a moronically incompetent squirrel. What _is_ that?

It looks like a cross between a poodle and a whale. It's a disgusting shade of gold that will look awful with my skin, and its shoulders are so sharp that it looks like it could poke someone's eye out. From the pointy shoulders dangle long links of gold rings, which connect to each other in the back. Its hem won't even reach my knees, and the dress poofs out beneath the waist so that it looks like the wearer of the dress is a floating gold ball of doom.

I sigh deeply and shake my head. Not only am I volunteering for my death today, but I also have to look like a ridiculous ostrich when I do it.

I carefully slip it on, trying not to get impaled by the shoulders. It fits tightly around my chest; too tightly for my liking. After struggling with the zipper in the back, I turn around to face the mirror and evaluate the catastrophe.

It's even more appalling than I imagined. The dress is too short for my lengthy body, which means that if I even bend down just slightly, all of District 1 along with anyone who's watching on television will get a _lovely_ view of my glorious sitting pillows.

Before I can peel the disgusting dress off of me and tell my mother that there's no way that I'm wearing it, she bursts into the bathroom and squeals delightedly as she sees me. "Oh, _Brittany_, you're _perfect_!"

"Mother—"

"Shush, shush, no speaking! Remember, _tough_ and _beautiful_, that's what you are! There's no need for simple and petty words when you're about to win the _68__th__ Hunger Games_!"

I glare at her. Her blonde curls bounce around happily as she pulls me out of the bathroom and back to my room. She forcefully sits me down on a decorated chair in front of a mirror and begins to alter my hair to her liking. I gaze at her in the mirror as she mercilessly pulls on my hair. She's exactly what they want at the Capitol. An insignificant tribute who becomes one of them. Well, I won't. Even if I win, I'll never become one of them.

"All ready!" she skips around joyously and I stare at myself in the mirror. If I thought that I looked horrible before, it was nothing compared to now.

My hair is curled to the point that it just looks utterly ridiculous. Precious gems of different colors make up a hairband that is firmly latched onto my head. I look like some creature from some horror movie, like the ones that my parents told me that they show in the Capitol.

My mother pulls me out of the chair and drags me down the stairs to the kitchen. My father, the infamous Glint Pierce, is sitting at the dining table, reading a newspaper. When we enter, he looks up and his mouth stretches into a grin. "There's my perfect little baby girl."

I roll my eyes and sit down across from him at the table. He's only "loving" when he wants something from me. And at this moment, he wants me to bring glory and honor to our family. To serve a reason for him to continue to say our family's motto: "We're Pierce and we're fierce!" What an idiotic motto, really.

My mother hurriedly serves us breakfast, all the while muttering, "Happy day! _Happy_ day!"

I pick up my fork and push my food around the plate. I'm really not hungry. In fact, I feel like I'm about to puke my guts out. I guess that's what happens when you know that you're facing a death sentence.

"Let's go, Brittany, eat, eat, _eat_! You want to be nice and full for the reaping! You can't _faint_ on the stage in front of everyone!"

"I'm not hungry, Mother."

"Oh, it's alright, Shimmer, soon she'll have some quality Capitol food to munch on," my father's unnaturally aligned teeth are revealed once again as he smiles proudly. "You'll enjoy every bit of it, Brittany, I promise."

Yeah, that's very likely. I drop my fork on the table and look everywhere except at my parents. I have a feeling that if I see their delighted facial expressions, then I might really throw up.

After breakfast, my parents and I begin to make our way out of the house and to District 1's Justice Building. We walk through the Victor's Village, which is composed of a horseshoe of blindingly white houses that wrap around a small park and pond. As we walk past the houses, we come to the training arena, where the children get trained to become Careers.

District 1's Justice Building is a tall marble structure with great pillars and glossy walls. Before it stands a large platform, on which a podium has been placed. On the podium is the symbol of the Capitol, a sort of eagle whose feet clutch onto a batch of arrows. Two glass balls sit on either side of the podium. Before the platform is a sea of District 1's eager and not-so-eager citizens.

"Alright, Brittany," my father grips my shoulder firmly. "We have to go up to the platform as the mentors of the tributes. But you know the drill. When the female tribute is chosen, you will volunteer. Are we clear?"

I nod reluctantly as he loosens his grip on my shoulder and begins to make his way to the platform. I gaze around me. I would've tried to find my friends, except I don't have any friends. No one wants to be the friend of the daughter whose parents spit on miners and walk around with their noses high up in the air.

I stand in the crowd and hug my arms around my chest, hoping that the shoulders of my dress won't skewer some innocent little kid. I can see the judgmental faces of some of my schoolmates as they point and giggle at my ludicrous outfit.

The mayor of our district, a plump man with a fat white moustache, steps up to the podium and clears his throat. He begins, as he does every year, to tell the long and difficult history of Panem. His monotone voice drones on about the natural disasters and the hardships that the people had to face before creating this _amazing_ country. He tells how the glorious Capitol took charge over thirteen districts, which, in their opinion, needed to be shown the "right ways." In other words, become their slaves. But then came the Dark Days. The districts began an uprising against the Capitol. The Capitol, in turn, defeated all of them, and even wiped District 13 off of the map. The Treaty of Treason was written to impose new laws on us, and to remind us just how powerful and scary the Capitol is, they also created the Hunger Games.

The mayor goes on to read the long list of District 1's victors. My parents, who are sitting in black chairs on the platform, expand their chests and raise their chins as their names are called. My father is asked to give a small speech, and he stands tall on his feet and walks to the podium. He places both of his hands on either side of it and gazes around proudly before beginning his speech.

"Today is a glorious day for me. Today, my daughter will volunteer to bring _honor_ to our district. We've trained her, trained her well, since she was just a tiny little toddler. I've never been more sure of anything, than that my daughter, Brittany, will be coming home from this year's Hunger Games."

The crowd claps politely, but quite unenthusiastically. No one likes a pompous ass.

The mayor returns to introduce District 1's escort, a bubbly young woman named Neenee Max who is sent from the Capitol every year for the Hunger Games. Today she has magenta hair and is wearing a neon blue dress suit. She smiles widely at us as if this is the moment that she's been waiting for her entire life. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She claps cheerfully as her cobalt lips stretch into an even wider smile. "Now let's begin with the drawing! Boys first!"

She crosses the stage to the glass ball on the left, her unbelievably high heels clicking on the metal. She reaches an enthusiastic hand and extracts a little white piece of paper. But no one is worried. Everyone knows that even if their names are the ones that are chosen, someone else will volunteer for them. That's how it always is in our district.

She makes her way back to the podium, clears her throat, and says, "Wonder Jiller!"

Wonder Jiller, a fourteen-year-old boy and a son of a miner, doesn't even bother to walk to the platform. A deep voice rings loudly and clearly through the square before he even has the chance to. "I volunteer."

Everyone makes way as Flicker Longis walks proudly to the platform. I sigh in disgust. Why him?

Flicker Longis is also a child of two victors. His parents and mine have been head to head their entire lives. In my parents' eyes, it is my destiny to destroy the Longis family's pride. If I did that, then I would truly bring ultimate happiness to them.

Flicker steps up onto the platform and stands beside Neenee, who is eyeing him up and down in satisfied wonderment. "Well, then!" she grins into the microphone. "We have a volunteer! Your name?"

"Flicker Longis," he says, his face hard and expressionless.

"Flicker Longis, everyone! Your male tribute!"

The crowd claps and some cheers rise from his friends and family. I begin to bounce my knee up and down, anxious at what's about to happen.

"And now, for our female tribute!" Neenee clicks over to the glass ball on the right, sticks a quick hand in it, and picks out a random note. Once she's back before the microphone, she says, "Glitter Nilly!"

Both of my knees are bouncing now and my breathing is staggered and unstable. I notice my parents' threatening glares from the platform. "I volunteer," I say weakly.

"What was that?" Neenee looks around at the crowd. "Did I hear someone volunteer?"

The people around me back off so that there's a clear path to the platform for me to walk through. I try to catch my breath as I begin to make my way toward the platform. After what seems like ages of walking through endless bodies and faces, I finally reach the stage. My throat is parched and my tongue feels like paper.

When I finally find my way to Neenee, she beams joyously at me. Her magenta hair is quite blinding from this close distance. "And your name?"

"Brittany Pierce," I say, my voice almost hushed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of District 1, I present to you your volunteer female tribute! This wonderful girl here, _Brittany Pierce_!"


	2. District 11, Reaping

Chapter 2: District 11, Reaping

_Santana_

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><p>I'm lying in my bed with my eyes widely open. Bud and Apple, my nine-year-old siblings, hug me tightly from each side. I run my left hand through Apple's long, thick hair as my right hand caresses Bud's forehead. They're still asleep, in their dreamland where everything is different and they have happy lives. Where their names won't be put into the drawing in a mere three years. They know what's to come, and they're petrified of it. They've watched the Games, they've seen the Career tributes. They know that if they are chosen to participate, their chances of surviving will be nearly nonexistent. And I know this, too.<p>

But when they bring the matter up, I simply hug them tightly until it hurts and tell them that they still have time, and that maybe things will change by the time that their names are put in. But they don't believe me, and, to be honest, I don't even believe myself.

At the moment, they're afraid that I will be chosen to participate. I've had my name put into the drawing several times in exchange for tesserae, which was the only way that my family could have a substantial supply of oil and grain. No one but me could do this for my family; my parents are too old to receive tesserae and my brother and sister too young. So this year, my name will be put into the drawing thirty-six times. Six times for each year that has passed between ages twelve to seventeen, and thirty times for every year's supply of oil and grain for my family. Let's just say that the odds aren't exactly in my favor.

What kind of sick people think of a thing such as the Hunger Games? What kind of people think that watching twenty-four teenagers fight to the death is merry entertainment? It's all just a game to them. They place their bets, ooh and ahh as one teenager dies by the terrified hands of another. The citizens of the Capitol don't view us as humans with feelings and lives and families. It's all just a show. The tragedies that take place in the arena are nothing more than television soap opera dramas to them. The mere thought of such people causes my stomach to twist with hatred.

I'm frightened to be chosen, but not for the obvious reasons. If I am chosen, Bud and Apple will have no one to care for them. My father, a stern and distant man, is hardly ever home. He has the most difficult job of us all—the cotton fields. All of the strongest boys and men are sent to the cotton fields. They leave before dawn and return after dusk. My father rarely ever has any time for us, and even when he does, he chooses to spend it alone. My mother, a frail woman who just doesn't have the time to care for her children, works in the barley fields. She loves us with all of her heart and treats us as best as she can during the little time that she spends at home. Which leaves me to care for Bud and Apple. I don't mind it; I take them to school every day, cook for them, wash them, make sure that they're healthy, or, as healthy as one can be in this poverty. And in the harvest season, when school closes and we're all sent to work, I take them with me to the orchards, where we pick fruit off of trees. When they were younger and didn't quite understand our situation, they called me "Mommy" because they thought that I was their mother.

If I am sent to the Hunger Games, which will almost certainly mean that I will die, how will they get by? Who will obtain grain and oil through tesserae? Who will risk their lives just so that Bud and Apple could eat?

I had risked my life for them. Once. My father had gotten hurt in the cotton fields, and he had to stay at home, which also meant that he would not receive any rations until he was back in the fields. It was a very difficult time, and we had so very little to eat. We would each eat barely an ounce of stale meat a day, and even that was extremely hard to come by. And one day, my siblings just couldn't get out of bed. They tried to, but, every time, their horridly thin bodies would give out under them. So I went to the orchards that day by myself. I was assigned to work in the apple orchard that day, which meant that I would be climbing up on trees all day. After I was finally let out, I quickly hid a couple of apples in my bag and hurried out of the orchard. I brought the apples home to my siblings and they devoured them in seconds.

But I had been seen. The next morning, there was pounding on our front door, and three burly Peacekeepers barged into our house to drag me out to the town square, which was buzzing with people on their ways to work. They threw me to the ground and flung their merciless whips at me, again and again and again. By the time that they finally stopped, I was blind with pain and tears, and my throat burned from screaming. My father carried me home, and it took days for the deep cuts to finally heal so that I could go back to work.

But I was lucky. I had seen many of District 11's citizens get killed on the spot for breaking the rigid laws of the Capitol. Innocent people who had failed to come to work or obtained things through the black market or maybe just stole some food so that their siblings wouldn't die. I was thankful that I had gotten a whipping instead of a death sentence.

Apple stirs beside me and I look down to see her large, worried eyes. I can see the fear boiling up inside of her. Her arm tightens around me and she whispers, "Please let them choose someone else."

I kiss her forehead and turn my head to the filthy window. The sun's already out, and it must be around eight in the morning. I groan softly and nudge Bud a little so that he would wake up. He looks sleepy and hazed at first, but then realization dawns on him and his face turns grim.

"Come on," I sit up and throw the thin blanket off of us. "Let's get ready."

Something smells delicious in the kitchen. My mother is cooking at the makeshift stove, and she turns her head to us when she hears us enter. She smiles lamentably.

Apple runs to her and stands on her tiptoes so that she could see what my mother is cooking. "Is—is that—_chicken_?"

I hurry to the stove. My mother is indeed cooking half of a chicken under very minimal seasoning. "Where did you get _chicken_, Mom?"

"In the black market," she flips it over in the aged pan.

"Must've cost you a fortune…" I lick my lips as the incredibly appetizing smell percolates into my nose.

"A whole month's supply of grain."

I shake my head and take a seat at the table. "You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to have a treat," she shrugs. "It is reaping day, after all."

When my mom finishes to cook, she cuts the chicken and leaves the biggest piece, the chicken breast, on a plate for my dad. Then she serves Bud and Apple the thigh and gives me a whole leg, all for myself.

"What about you?" I ask hesitantly, my mouth watering at the smell.

"I'll eat something else later," she smiles reassuringly at me.

I bring the small drumstick to my mouth, close my eyes, and take a bite. It tastes so wonderful that I quickly take another bite before swallowing the first one. I've only had chicken once before because it's so expensive. Chicken is an extremely rare delight.

I'm about halfway through finishing my share when I look up to see Bud and Apple staring hungrily at the meat in my hands. They've already finished their portion, and it's almost like I can hear their stomachs grumbling for more. I glance regretfully at the half-finished chicken leg and then hold it toward them. They grin gratefully as Bud leans across the table to grab it and they begin to devour what little meat is left on the bone.

"Santana, darling," my mom puts a caring hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you go wash and get ready for the reaping?"

I nod grimly and make my way out of the kitchen and to the shower room. Or, better phrased, the room with the large wooden bucket that contains freezing water. I sigh deeply and begin to strip myself of my grimy clothes. I plant a chair right by the bucket, sit in it, and, with an old sponge, begin to scrub the layers of dirt off of my body.

I gaze at my protruding ribs as I wash myself. What's it like to live in the Capitol? To have unlimited amounts of food? To wear clean clothes every morning? To not have to constantly be in a fight for your life? It seems unreal, impossible. An entirely foreign idea that has no place in District 11.

Are the other districts struggling in the way that we are? There are rumors about some of the other districts, like District 12, whose citizens supposedly live in poverty just like us. But what about the others? What about the districts that produce Career tributes like Districts 1 and 2? Do they receive special treatment for proving as the Capitol's most delightful source of entertainment? The Careers always look so fit and muscular and healthy. So different from us. Do they receive extra food while the rest of us are left to starve?

Once again, I am overcome by hatred for the Capitol and its corruption. The lack of fairness is utterly repulsive. I grit my teeth and scrub myself more violently at the thought.

When I am finished, I wrap the towel that my mother has laid out for me around my body and walk to my room. On the chair by my bed lies a simple dress in a soft shade of red. It's one of my mother's. I put the towel aside, slip on some undergarments, and then carefully put on the dress. It has a modest ribbon the ties in the back, making the dress better fitted. I turn to the small mirror on the wall to gaze at myself.

My damp hair is spread across my shoulders, wetting the thin fabric. I think about how this dress would look much better on me if I weren't so skinny. My eyes are despondent and my face grim. I sigh deeply, rip my gaze off of the mirror, and make my way back to the kitchen.

Bud and Apple are already dressed in their best clothes, and Apple's hair is tied back in a high ponytail. They're sitting on two flimsy chairs as their legs swing back and forth in anxiety. My lips stretch into a small but reassuring smile. "It'll be okay," I say.

The reaping is to be held in the town square, as usual. My mother, my siblings, and I leave the house and walk quietly across the streets, which are buzzing with families on their ways to the reaping. Our shoes chafe against the gravel at our feet.

A stage was set up before the Justice Building, and a pink banner that is stretched above it reads, "Welcome to the Reaping!" I chuckle sourly at the irony of the optimistic sign in such a horrible event.

The kids whose names are put into the drawing are told to file into a small space before the stage. Bud and Apple hug me tightly from either side, their small hands clenching onto my dress. I caress their heads and whisper, "It'll be okay, I promise."

I lean down to them and lightly kiss their foreheads. Then I turn to my mother, who's standing to our right. A sad smile spreads across her face as she says, "Good luck."

I pull her into a firm hug, and then proceed to the area in front of the stage. I easily find my best friend, Spring Yeld. She grins sarcastically at me and says, in fake overenthusiasm, "Are you ready?"

I roll my eyes at the dark-skinned girl. Spring and I are a sort of inseparable duo. We grew up together, and she, like me, has little siblings to care for. She knows firsthand the hardships that I have to go through.

Someone clears their throat into the microphone and the crowd hushes and turns its attention to the stage. What we see is nearly blinding. Our district's escort, sent straight from the Capitol, Boopie Bee, could not possibly look more out of place in all of the dirt and quiet but evident fear. Looking at her hurts my eyes nearly as much looking straight at the sun. Her hair is the brightest shade of yellow that you can imagine, and her lips and dress suit match her hair in a disgustingly perfect way. It's almost like she's emitting heat from her bright rays. I squint my eyes slightly at the sight.

She smiles widely at us, her perfectly aligned teeth shining brightly under her golden lips. "Welcome, welcome, and happy Hunger Games! Regrettably enough, your mayor has come down with some sort of strange _sickness_, and he will not be able to host this event for us this afternoon. So _I_ will replace him! _Isn't that exciting?_"

Her everlasting confidence doesn't falter at the sea of unenthusiastic faces that's looking up at her. Spring and I sigh hopelessly in unison. Boopie's obnoxious grin remains on her face as she continues on, "Let's start at the top, then, shall we? Almost a century ago, a _tragedy_ fell upon this world. Horrible disasters, bloody wars. It seemed as though the human race would become extinct, simply disappear into thin air. But at the last moment, _the Capitol_, a beautiful city with the most brilliant government, emerged from the ashes of disaster. The Capitol took it upon itself to better the lives of the people around it by separating them into districts and providing hard but rewarding work for them, along with great amounts of food for each family so that each child grows up to be strong and beautiful. But then—_the Dark Days_. District 13 led an entirely unreasonable rebellion against the virtuous Capitol, attempting to create havoc in the country of Panem. But, very thankfully, they were unsuccessful. The Capitol struck it down, along with the other districts. After such an event, it was decided that the Capitol must rule the districts with an iron fist. Our wonderful government created a yearly event called the Hunger Games, in which a boy and a girl are chosen from each district to fight to the death. And since then, Panem has been a _pleasant _and _peaceful_ place to live in."

It's obvious that Boopie is expecting enthusiastic clapping for her speech, but we all just stand there and glare up at her. I'm sure that everything looks very flowery from her side.

Her relentless smile continues to shine down at us, and she says, "You've only got one victor that's still alive, so why don't you all please welcome _Daisy Loon_!" She turns back and looks expectantly at the woman sitting in the chair behind her.

Daisy Loon, or, as some of the kids call her, Daisy Loony, rocks back and forth in her chair. I had always felt badly for her. After her victory in the Hunger Games, Daisy was driven to madness by her guilt for killing the other tributes. It's impossible to get anything rational out of her, which is probably why we hadn't had any victors since. She's a thin woman with stringy hair, and it's evident that she doesn't take very good care of herself. Any tribute is helpless in her feeble hands.

Boopie waits for a little while longer, watching Daisy hum quietly to herself, before turning back to the microphone. "Well, it seems like Daisy wouldn't like to speak at the moment. So," she jumps up happily, "it's time! Let's begin with the drawing! Ladies first! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

Her heels click on the stage as she makes her way toward the glass ball that contains the names of the female teenagers of District 11. She reaches a confident hand in and quickly extracts a white note and begins to make her way back to the microphone. I crack my back uneasily and look around. Bud and Apple's worried faces are gazing at me from the other side of the square, and I smile reassuringly at them and mouth, "It's okay."

Boopie clears her throat into the microphone as her mouth stretches into that unyielding smile of hers. I find myself holding my breath as she gazes at the fearful crowd and finally calls out, "Santana Lopez!"


	3. From District 1 to the Capitol

Chapter 3: From District 1 to the Capitol

_Brittany_

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><p>The anthem of Panem booms throughout the square, threatening to tear my eardrums, as I stand nervously on the stage and gaze down at hundreds of cynical faces. They're all thinking the same thing—this girl will be out of the game in seconds. I glance to my left and see Flicker waving majestically to the crowd, in complete control of this whole situation. Neenee is standing beside me, joyously beaming down at the crowd and batting her magenta eyelashes flirtingly. Suddenly, I feel two bodies on either side of me, and I look up to see my parents smiling cheerfully and waving their hands. My father nudges me, a little harder than he needed to, and, through his fake smile and gritted teeth, mutters, "<em>Smile<em>, Brittany. This is what you've been _waiting _for."

I roll my shoulders uneasily but don't smile. I'm about to die anyway, so why do I need to please my parents?

After the anthem finishes, a group of Peacekeepers appears around me, and they lead me to the front doors of the old Justice Building. They march me through the doors and down a hallway until we come to an empty room. They command me to go in and close the door behind me. I turn to face the deserted room.

The furniture, the walls, the carpet, everything screams of wealth, even compared to the Victor's Village. I wonder if this is what rooms look like in the Capitol. The gold carpet gleams in the sunlight that shines through the tall windows, which are partly covered by matching golden curtains. Leather couches, blindingly white, sit in a square horseshoe with their backs to the walls, and a small table stands in the center of the room. It's all too artificial for my taste. It's like the mayor and his family are trying to fool themselves into thinking that they are indeed living in the Capitol. Trying to ignore the fact that even though we are the wealthiest and most prized district, we're still a district, and under the complete control of the Capitol and its totalitarian tentacles.

I sit on one of the couches and wonder if anyone will come to say a last goodbye to me. Maybe there's someone who's always wanted to be my friend, but never acted on those feelings. Maybe there's someone who actually cares.

But there isn't. I sit alone in the room for about ten minutes before a herd of Peacekeepers marches in and leads me outside to a car, where my parents are waiting for me. They don't look too happy, and a strange feeling of joy for their misery settles in me. I hate them for what they are putting me through.

I slide into the back seat of the car to sit by my parents. They're shaking their heads, and at the moment that the Peacekeepers slam the door behind me, they explode.

"How _dare _they—"

"To excuse _us_ from mentorship simply because our _daughter_ is a tribute—"

"Well, at least they excused that _idiotic_ Longis couple as well…"

I tune out their protests and turn my head to the window with a little smile on my face. At least I won't have to deal with them during my time at the Capitol. And at least the Games would be _somewhat_ fair.

The ride to the train station only takes about five minutes. When the door on my side of the car opens, I am ambushed by countless reporters and the blinding flashes of their cameras. They shout incoherent questions at me, elbowing each other to get closer. I ignore them and follow the Peacekeepers to the slick train.

Flicker Longis must have been brought here by another car, because he's already standing in the doorway of the train, waving to the sea of reporters. The Peacekeepers lightly shove me up the stairs of the train so that I'm standing by Flicker's side. I turn around and gaze at the crowd. I see my parents pull the tips of their lips up with their fingers, as a sort of last command for me to smile. I glare at them and decide that even if it gets me killed, I will no longer do as they tell me.

After a few minutes of awkward standing before the eager reporters, Flicker and I are instructed to stand back. The door slides closed before us, cutting off the last image of my district and my irritating parents.

The train instantly begins to move, so swiftly that it feels like we're flying above ground. I almost fall on Flicker but catch myself at the last minute. He shoots me a disgusted glance and walks away, down the hallway of the train. I follow him reluctantly until we reach a glass door that leads to a little dining area. If I thought that the Justice Building looked fancy, it was nothing compared to this train. The plates that sit on the glossy wooden table seem to be made of silver, as well as the dainty silverware. Velvety chairs surround the table, and the strange food on it looks so expensive that it doesn't even seem real. If this is what their trains look like, what does the Capitol look like?

Neenee Max is already sitting at the table, eyes bright and mouth wide with enthusiasm. "Aren't you all _so very_ excited?"

I roll my eyes and take a seat across from her. My knee anxiously bounces up and down as Neenee and Flicker begin to serve themselves food. I decide to pass on this meal for fear that if I eat, my horrible nausea will grow stronger.

Suddenly, I feel as if something's missing. How can it be just two tributes and an escort? "Where's our mentor?"

Neenee and Flicker raise their gazes from their plates, Flicker more judgmental than ever and Neenee somewhat confused. Suddenly, it's like a light bulb is turned on in her head, and she says, "Oh! Your mentor! She should be here at any minute!"

I lean back in my chair and wonder who they chose our mentor to be. District 1 has plenty of victors. Whoever it is, though, I'm sure that she won't favor me over Flicker, the obvious victor. But I don't really mind. I've already accepted the fact that I'm going to die. I doubt that I will even try to stay alive for long in the arena. Better to go out in a quick, painless way than to try to survive the terrible arena and the ruthless tributes.

After a few minutes of delicate silverware clinging against silver plates, the glass door of the compartment slides open to reveal—oh, _no_.

The one and only Twinkle Mobelly stands at the door with a bitter smirk on her face that says one thing—this is Twinkle Mobelly, and _no one_ crosses Twinkle Mobelly.

Twinkle Mobelly won the 47th Hunger Games twenty-one years ago. It was almost impossible, really—she had such a thin structure, so dainty and seemingly harmless. She was a miner's daughter who volunteered, and in the place of a Career, which caused uproar among the victors and Careers. According to what I've heard, the whole district turned against her. No one dreamed that she would actually win. But she did.

She was merciless, cruel, and utterly heartless in the arena. She was very fast, and very quiet, a deadly combination. She sneaked up on the other tributes, and they never had a chance. But it wasn't the fact that she killed tributes that caused all of Panem to lean forward in their chairs and cover their eyes, unable to take any more of the scene. It was _how_ she killed them.

She liked to play with her prey. She would torture each tribute psychologically for hours before finally revealing herself. She would make noises, throw rocks, leave them always on the watch. Sometimes she would do this for days, until the tribute passed out from fatigue. In the replays that I've seen of the Games, I remember seeing those tributes' faces when she tormented them so. Sweat glistening on their foreheads, their heads snapping from side to side, their feet turning in circles until they were dizzy. Completely petrified. Some of them broke down and cried, and that's when she would finally show herself. She would step out from behind a tree, a callous chuckle escaping her lips. She would ask them if they wanted their mommies, or if she should spare their lives. The tributes were so mentally harmed by that point that they didn't even get up to fight her. They curled up in balls or just lay down on the ground, knowing what was to come, but welcoming it. Wanting it to end, just _end_, already. They were waiting for that final blow, a knife to the throat, an arrow to the heart, but it never came.

She would make only enough damage so that they would slowly bleed to death or die of starvation or dehydration. And after doing this damage, she would sit by them until the last drop of blood trickled from their bodies, and only then would she finally move on to her next target. She was the worst kind of sadist.

When she came back to the district after the Games, she wasn't welcomed. When people saw her in the street, they deliberately turned back and walked in another direction, just so they wouldn't have to speak with her, or just be near her for that matter. But she enjoyed every bit of that fear. She used it to her advantage, and, consequently, she always received what she wanted.

And now she's standing in the doorway of our train compartment. She's my mentor, the person who's supposed to support me and make me look appealing. But the problem with Twinkle Mobelly is that she favors the tribute who is most like her, most twisted and brutal, and Flicker would undoubtedly win her support in this case. I won't have even the slightest chance.

"Well, well, well," Twinkle calmly meanders into the room, her eyes jumping between Flicker and I, assessing her new litter. Her gaze falls on my empty plate, and then she raises her eyes back to me, a smile spreading across her face. She tilts her head slightly to the right and chuckles quietly to herself. It's like I can read her thoughts—this girl isn't eating, and she isn't worth my precious efforts. She might as well jump off of the train now because she's as good as dead.

She sits at the head of the table, now turning to examine Flicker. He flexes his chest muscles and picks up his fork again, scooping up large portions of whatever-that-green-thing-is and taking in huge mouthfuls. Twinkle smiles sweetly at him and I roll my eyes and look in the other direction for fear that I will vomit if I continue to see Flicker force that green thing down his throat.

"So, Brittany…" Twinkle hisses dangerously. "You didn't seem too—what's the word I'm looking for—_enthusiastic_ about volunteering for the Hunger Games. Actually, you looked rather frightened. Mommy and Daddy making you do this, _honey_?" she utters the last word with overpowering superiority, making sure that I know who's boss.

I continue to look in the other direction and don't answer. I'm going to die anyway, so I don't really care who I please and who I don't.

Twinkle giggles delightedly. I'm doing exactly what she wants, being the rebel child, but I don't care. It may just be more entertainment for her, but at least I don't have to pretend to be joyful and excited about something that I'm not.

I sit at the table until I can't stand it anymore and I ask Neenee to be excused from the table. She doesn't look happy about it, but she allows me to leave.

I exit through the sliding glass door and walk down the hallway until I find the room that Neenee described to be mine. I push the door open and find myself standing in the corner of an adorned bedroom that has an ornate dressing area in the back corner and a little door that probably leads to the shower room. I wander into the chambers and lock the door behind me.

I decide to take a shower first, so I open the drawers to look for something to wear. I'm still in that repulsive dress from earlier today, and I long for something comfortable and a whole lot of shampoo to wash this hairspray out of my hair. I find baby blue pajamas made of satin and make my way to the shower. Once inside, I find myself utterly puzzled by the hundreds of buttons on the wall, and by the time that I find the one that turns on the water, I've had soaps of all different smells and colors squirted on my body, and some into my eyes. Leave it to the Capitol to make showers on trains so complicated.

After I dry myself off, I put on the satin pajamas, sort of relieved. Everything seems much better now that I'm out of all of that make-up and hairdo, and I climb into bed, realizing just now how tired I am. I fall asleep just as I lay my head on the pillow.

* * *

><p>When I wake up, it seems to already be midday and someone is pounding on my door. I slowly begin to hear Neenee's voice as my eyes come into focus. "Brittany! <em>Brittany<em>! Get up! We're almost there!"

I groan and throw the blanket off of me. I regret missing dinner and breakfast now as my stomach grumbles in protest. I also just now remember Neenee mentioning last night that, after dinner, we would be watching the reaping in the other districts, and I regret not staying up to see that, too. All in all, I decide, I was rather careless last night.

I hurriedly put on a navy blue shirt and some black pants, and dash out of the chambers. I can already feel the train slowly coming to a halt, and I see Flicker standing in the doorway of the train, ready to meet the hungry eyes of the Capitol. I rush to his side right when the hallway is washed with bright light, and we can see the eager citizens of the Capitol jumping up and down, craning their necks to get a better view of the train. Once the train finally stops, the door slides open, and I almost fall back from the sudden sound of screams and cheers that come from the excited crowd. Flicker walks down the stairs until he is on the platform, waving regally to the citizens. I swallow my fear and follow his lead, although not quite as confidently.

We're taken to the fanciest car that I have ever seen, pink with gold-lined doors, and once we're inside, all sounds from the crowd are shut out. As the car leaves the station, I look through the window at the citizens of the Capitol, so enthusiastic, so ignorant. Their colored wigs and ridiculous make-up reflect the bright sunlight that's shining on their faces, and their clothes, of various colors and styles, are tightly stretched over their material bodies.

Once we're out of the station, the Capitol and all of its glory is revealed before us. We pass tall marble structures, wide screens held up by thick metal poles that reflect our car as we fly through the city, flashy signs advertising stores where you can buy things like "Live Bird Hair Pins! Chirp on cue!" and "Big Yogo's Anti-Wrinkle Elixir! Too many wrinkles on your face? Worry not! Big Yogo has the solution!" Everything seems so unreal. So…_fake_. Like they've built a whole world of dreams just for themselves.

We come to a structure so wide and high that I can barely see the ends of it. The car halts and the back door is opened to let Flicker and I slide out of the back seat. We're led into the building by a group of guards in white uniforms, sort of like Peacekeepers' uniforms, but a little different.

Once inside, Flicker and I are each taken to a different room. When I'm led to my room, I find two flamboyant men and a thin woman, all very excited and dressed in the same bright colors that all other Capitol citizens are. They jump up when they see me, their lipstick-smothered lips stretching into wide, eager smiles. They pull me into the room and begin to chatter so quickly and loudly that I can't even understand what they're saying. I shut off my mind and let them do as they please, which, to my great dismay, includes plucking and waxing and washing under burning hot water.

When they're done, they leave me lying down on the stiff bed, completely naked. By this time, I've sort of backed into a numb state. Everything seems far-off and surreal, as if this isn't really happening to me. The same thought keeps passing through my mind over and over again—I'm going to die. But somehow, instead of panicking at the thought, I'm entirely calm. Maybe, even though that thought is evident in my mind, maybe I'm in denial. Or maybe I just don't care.

Suddenly, the door of the room opens, and I snap my head to the left to see a very tall woman dressed in a long turquoise dress with pink polka dots. She doesn't even look like a real person, more like some kind of deformed doll. She must've gone through so many surgeries that most of her isn't really her anymore. Her lips, far too plump for the rest of her face, look like they're about to burst, and her skin is stretched so tightly over her bones that when she smiles, I almost warn her to be careful so that she won't crack.

Her heels click into the room and she shuts the door behind her. "Hello, Brittany," she says, just above a hush. Her voice somehow doesn't seem real, either. "My name is Boola, and I am your stylist."

I blink once and continue to stare at her, feeling somewhat self-conscious about the fact that I'm lying naked and vulnerable before her. She opens the doors of a closet that's situated in the corner of the room and extracts an outfit that makes me groan quietly and close my eyes. Why do District 1's outfits always have to look so very ridiculous?

The dress is entirely made up of precious gems. There's not even a fabric under the gems, so my body will be partly visible through the small spaces between them. The gems create a swirl pattern in glowing reds, blues, and greens. Boola asks me to stand up, allows me to wear a bra and underwear the match my skin color a little too well, and then helps to slip the gem dress on my body.

I completely stop caring about how bizarre I will look when the dress is fully on me. Forget ridiculous, this dress is _heavy_. How exactly am I supposed to look graceful when I can barely hold myself up?

But that's my specialty. I remind myself that I can run for miles with a hundred pounds on my back, and muster up that strength as Boola leads me out of the room and through some hallways, until we reach a giant space that has a large metal garage door on one end. In the room are twelve chariots, each matching the main resource that the districts are good for. The chariots are situated in a horseshoe, and I'm led to the right end of it, where District 1's chariot, also covered by gems, was placed. To my great relief, Flicker was made to wear a suit made of gems as well. At least we'll look ludicrous together.

I'm still in the hazed and distant state when I stand by the chariot and look around. District 2's tributes are dressed as very fancy Peacekeepers, which I would much rather be than a sea of heavy gems. District 4's tributes are dressed as fish, which makes me giggle a little, and District 7's tributes, as always, are dressed as trees, because they produce lumber. My eyes pass over every district until they land on District 11's tributes, who immediately catch my attention. Their outfits are composed of feathers in the shades of light blue and green. My eyes settle on the girl tribute. Her abdominal area is visible, as well as her thin but fit legs, and I find myself staring at her body with my mouth hanging slightly open. I haven't seen anything this beautiful in a long time. My eyes ride up her body until they meet her face, and my cheeks flush deeply as I find that she caught me staring at her. Her eyes, dark and frightened, scan me as I look at her face, which has been painted to make her look like a breathtaking bird. I find myself wanting to, more than anything, end whatever is making her so frightened, and as our gazes lock, I smile reassuringly to let her know that maybe, just maybe, it'll all be okay.


End file.
